


The Life and Times of Evie Frye

by samwysesr



Series: The Life and Times of Evie Frye [4]
Category: AC Syndicate - Fandom, Assassin's Creed Syndicate - Fandom
Genre: Anti-Henvie, F/M, Fryecest - Freeform, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:36:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwysesr/pseuds/samwysesr
Summary: A collection of drabbles/one shots/diary entries covering different points in Evie's life,  exploring her innermost thoughts and feelings. Pov will vary between third/first person, depending on the drabble, as will the time frame (they won't necessarily be in chronological order).—100% Fryecest—100% Anti-Henvie/ not Henry Green friendly—Ties in to my other Syndicate fics





	1. Obliteration

****

 

 

 **IN THE WAKE OF THE INCIDENTS** that occurred within the vault beneath Buckingham Palace, Evie Frye encountered an adversary more difficult than any she’d faced before; the struggle was so arduous that after each confrontation, she was left battered and broken—though the bruises and scars were all internal, never showing on her skin.

The enemy was her mind, the battleground, her sleep.

The nightmares started immediately, catching her completely unaware. Somniatory attacks so long and intense that she was left pale and haggard in the morning when she arose—drained from a night full of tossing and turning as she struggled to escape the terror. Waking numerous times with a startled jerk, biting back a panicked cry—her heart pounding as she fought to separate the reality around her from the torture of her dream.

When finally she arose, it was with tear stains on her cheeks and dark circles beneath her eyes— weary to the bone and yet, at the same time dreading the very thought of sleep. Mustering up every speck of strength she possessed, she would do what she could to push the haunting specters from her mind—all the while knowing that when her head hit the pillow they would spring to life again the moment she drifted off.

There was no exorcising them—she tried everything. Telling herself that they were ridiculous, fabrications, skewering the actual events—repeating it like a mantra as she closed her eyes and sleep claimed her, only to resume the whispered chant, her voice thick with tears and seasoned with hysteria each time she lurched awake. Journaling to write about the horrors did not lessen them, and dosing herself with whiskey before bed simply left her with a headache, making the morning after even worse.

And then, just when she was sure she was at her lowest—positive that nothing could be more horrible than what plagued her... things got worse. The nightmares began crossing the hazy veil between wake and sleep—bleeding through and blindsiding her when least expected.

When she was putting her research materials in order. In the midst of reviewing a possible lead on another artifact with Henry, or tossing ideas back and forth with Jacob about how they should best focus on recruiting new Assassins. When she stopped off at the pub where the Rooks congregated to congratulate them on a job well done. It didn’t matter what or where—the threat was ever looming.

Even just walking the streets became a gamble—at any given moment, the specters would flicker to life in the back of her consciousness; will o wisp images that set her pulse pounding betwixt her ears, jabbing at her temples with each beat of her heart. Immediately, as soon as that first warning sign appears, she tries to fight back the panic welling up, clawing at her insides—only to find herself completely helpless, no matter how much she struggles. Knowing what is coming, but powerless to keep it at bay, her hands clench into fists, every muscle in her body coiling up with tension.

Then it appears in her minds eyes, as real and vibrant and lifelike as the world around her—as tangible as the bricks and mortar in the buildings that stand around her, and the cobbles beneath her feet.

_Jacob, in a crumpled, lifeless  heap at Sterrick's feet, his body broken beyond repair—unable to respond to the screams that burst from her chest as she drops down beside him, gathering him in her arms. His eyes flat and dead as she frantically tries to revive him—his cheeks cold beneath her palms as the warmth of his body is leeched away, stolen away by death’s cold embrace. The sudden realization there is nothing she can do, that her other half is is gone forever leaves her shattered, crumbling the very world to dust as all that she is comes undone._

Breath catching in her throat, instinct takes over; she retreats from the crowded street, searching for the closest alleyway—hunting for the seclusion of the deepest, darkest corner before the rage and terror that roll and twist in the pit of her stomach break free. With the acidic taste of fear and bile seasoning her tongue, her body betrays her—legs give out, sending her to her knees amidst the dirt and filthy refuse covering the ground. She can’t fight the demons that plague her—their knowledge of her greatest weakness gives them strength. The horrible taunting glimpses of what might have been break her—tears fill her eyes, agony stealing the breath from her lungs. Her ability to separate dream from reality crumbles to dust—she is adrift. Thought and reason are gone—the sound of her lamenting echoes in her ears, the high pitched keening sound of an animal in pain.

It is only in those moments of complete, merciless terror that she truly understands the burden her father carried in the dark days that followed their birth—the load growing heavier and more profound with each year that passed, set aside only by the cold comfort of his grave.

And it is only _then_ —when she is shaking uncontrollably, ridden so intensely by panic and grief and fear—that she understands the bleak desolation of the _nothingness_ that eats away at your soul when the one you love most is _gone._


	2. Journal Entry: 8 March, 1868

 

8 March, 1868

 

It has come to my attention that—of late—the information I have entered into my notebook is lacking certain things. For the most part, I have focused solely on the mission itself and the steps Jacob and I have taken that propel us towards our great goal—only adding the merest morsels of information regarding my personal thoughts and feelings.

I wonder, perhaps, if this might not be one of the reasons I’ve felt so off kilter these last few weeks. When Father relayed the importance of keeping a journal, initially I thought he simply meant to convey the efficacy in keeping accurate, detailed accounts of ones actions, however now I believe that he meant something else entirely. In Crawley my scribblings were not necessarily focused on specific tasks at all—he told me I should write down everything, including whatever thoughts might linger, playing at my mind, so that is what I did, filling the pages of the book he gave me with all manner of things, based upon my mood. In looking back, I see the method he was trying to convey in a way that I could not grasp before—if one records everything they feel, they can easily look back over the pages to search out the root of any disquiet they might feel and take steps to eliminate the problem.

With that in mind, today I obtained a lovely new book in which I will keep a completely separate record from the notes I record on the mission; my intent is to heed Father’s wise advice and keep a personal record of my innermost thoughts, the way I once did in my youth.

Perhaps if I revive the practice of untethering my unfettered thoughts and feelings through writing, I will begin to release the brunt of my frustrations on these pages as opposed to my twin, thus lessening the strife that has sprung up between us.

Whether or not the exercise will  _work_ , however, remains to be seen.


	3. Journal Entry: 8 March 1868 (cont)

 

8 March, 1868

It will be a rare occurrence for me to visit your page twice in one day, however, I cannot sleep, and I find myself becoming desperate as the minutes tick closer to dawn. My mind will not still—my thoughts are turbulent, churning things, so perhaps if I put pen to paper, jotting them down, those very thoughts will flow out of my head as the ink flows from the nib, leaving me in peace.

The truth of the matter is that I have had trouble sleeping since our arrival in London. Strangely enough, it is not the constant hum of the city or the cracking, groaning rattle of the train moving along the tracks that disturbs my rest—rather, it is the sounds that are  lacking  that leaves me in a muddled insomniac haze. That makes no logical sense upon examination—I know—so I shall elaborate to clarify the statement.

For as long as I can remember, there has been a consistent pattern every night—familiar, comforting occurrences that slowly relax my body and mind, guiding me from wakefulness towards the stillness of rejuvenating rest. Not the most basic necessities that are prerequisite, per say, but the simple, natural things that I now realize I took for granted.

 Things like the warm, solid comfort of Jacob’s body curled around mine—his breath hitching slightly in his throat as a gentle warning, followed by the slow even sound of his breathing as sleep claimed him. Even the occasional snores he emitted—something I teased him about relentlessly—are things I find myself straining to hear as I lay awake in my narrow, uncomfortable bed. The absence of those sounds is a constant reminder that I am  alone  for the first time in my life... and I detest the wretched solitude.

Such musings send my mind spiraling even further into the past, all the way back to childhood when Father oft remarked how it warmed his heart to see us curled up like kittens—and truly, that is how we slept. Foreheads pressed together and breath co-mingling, we held tight to each other every night, our limbs entwined like living vines as we drifted off into dreams. Oh, those innocent times—in looking back, how easy it is for me to realize that our embrace conveyed so much more than mere comfort. In a way, it contained a silent sense of desperation—one that betrayed our greatest fear, even as it reflected the tragic losses that influenced us in ways that we were too young to grasp and understand.

We lived in fear of losing each other the same way we’d lost our parents—the tightness of those tiny clinging arms and legs was an attempt to hang on so tightly that nothing and no one could ever pry our other half away. Losing our mother to death before we could know her instilled that fear, and the abandonment of our absentee father strengthened and reinforced it. Indeed, our formative years were heavily seasoned by those disappearances, though in truth the words ‘parents’ and  ‘mother’ and ‘father’ were simply that—words, and nothing more. We had no memory of our parents—nothing other than the stories our grandmother sometimes shared, describing the way they’d looked or the things they’d done. What they represented wasn’t a sense of love and family—they signified something that was supposed to be there, but was gone from our lives and could never be recovered.

Even when Father eventually reclaimed us, initially, his reemergence into our lives brought with it no joy—rather, we had to face the most significant loss of our young lives. I often wonder if Father realized how terrifying it was for us, to have a strange man appear, tearing us away from the only home we’d ever known. Did he care how much it hurt us all—not just myself and my twin, but our grandparents as well? I remember looking out the window of the train as it pulled away from the station—grandmother was sobbing in grandfathers arms, and Jacob and I, we were crying too. Our tears were silent, muted by our fear of the man who’d bundled us onto the train—we understood who he was, of course, but not exactly what it meant. We didn’t realize what was happening, or that we’d never see our cozy room that overlooked a meadow, or sleep in the warm comfort of our bed, beneath the quilt our grandmother made. Worst of all, we never realized that was the last time we’d ever see the kind, caring faces that we loved so very much.

After that day, the fear inside us grew. Like so many things between us, no words need pass our lips to share our feelings—that is something that still hasn’t changed. Jacob and I can share a deeper conversation with one locked gaze than we do through the countless words we must waste when communicating with other people. As it is now it was then—when we curled up together that first night in Crawley, our eyes met and we both knew we felt the same thing. That was when the nightmares started for both of us—for if our loving Grandmother and Grandfather could so easily disappear from our lives, surely one of us might vanish just the same.

I remember waking from those night terrors, panic racing through me and speeding my heart as I stared at my twin’s sleeping face—watching as closely as I could to make sure he was breathing, knowing that on other nights he did the same. Surely the mere fact those nightmares are still as vivid in my mind at twenty indicates how strongly their content affected me as a child. They have not faded or been tarnished by the passage of time—just thinking about them now has my heart pounding fiercely in my breast, the panic crushing my lungs, making it hard for me to breathe. Even as I write this, I suddenly realize that perhaps the only chance I have of vanquishing the fear once and for all is to face it wholly, admitting something within these pages that I hide from everyone—even from myself.

Those nightmares have never truly gone away—they were never chased off by age and maturity, the way they ought have been. That is the true reason why merely thinking of them brings about such symptoms— they occasionally still plague me, even to this very day. I did not outgrow the foolish habit of waking in a cold sweat and reaching over to touch my brother’s cheek to make sure it was still warm—listening keenly for the soft sound of his breath as reassurance that he was still among the living.

Dare I go on and bare my soul more to these pages? I have expunged so much here already, surely, the only logical thing to do is continue moving forward with the truth, rather than shrinking back and retreating to that safe place of hidden self-denial. With that sensible deduction as my touchstone, I must confess that I still indulge in those habits quite frequently, though it is far more difficult now that we are living on this train.

Even now, when we are at odds, I feel the overpowering pull of those long lived tendencies; though I try to resist, I know that when I set this book aside, I will creep silently across the brief stretch that separates us, caring nothing about facing the chill wind that whips between the cars as we move along the tracks. Hovering over that wretched settee that is far too short to be truly comfortable for a man with such long limbs, I will stand silently in the darkness, holding my breath—searching for those signs of life that have been so deeply ingrained in my mind over the years. And as always, the entire time I will be at war with my own accursed instincts, leading me right back to the very crux of my problem and the beginning of this entry.

No words can convey nor properly relate how hard it is to stand there, struggling against the urge to curl up beside him in the place where I belong—fighting back a lifetime of sensory memories, and the overwhelming longing they stir within me. How easy it is to imagine burying my face in the crook of his neck as I’ve always been apt to do—letting the warmth of his body and the dear, delicious familiar scent that is solely Jacob’s lull me into the deep, peaceful sleep that now eludes me. I don’t think anyone can possibly understand the physical ache I feel in those moments—it is comparable only to the pain one might feel from a phantom limb that has long been removed. He is a  part  of me—it  hurts  not to be beside him, and that ache is only intensified by the knowledge that should I dare give in, the pain would be assuaged. Those strong arms would automatically surround me, pulling me closer—the cocoon of our twinship sheltering us through the night.

Together—that’s the way we’re meant to be. 

Were it not for the constant comings and goings of others, I could give in to my urges to curl up beside him—better yet, simply share this lonely bed, the way we have so many others from the moment we were born. I would not have to walk away unfulfilled and frustrated, forced to suffer through the endless aching. There would be no worry of how others might react—no perturbing thoughts of scandal from misconstrued imaginations. We would have the same privacy we had back home—back in the wonderful room we shared.

Surely, it is only natural to long for these things—after all, it is how we started our lives, curled up together in the embrace of our mother’s womb. The distance that is growing between us is what is unnatural, and I fear it will only continue to fester, growing worse with each passing day. In these dismal hours as I wait for dawns light to chase away the darkness, I find myself wondering if it is in fact the very act of sleeping apart that feeds the turbulent emotions that have sprung up between us.

I recall a story that Grandmother often told us as children—that when twins sleep, their souls rejoin, reforming into the perfect whole they were in the beginning before being split in two. Perhaps our poor souls, battered and bruised by the wrongness of being kept apart are lashing out at us for ignoring their demands—stirring the prickly feelings that now seem to plague us. If that is true, and my soul itself is damaged, surely that is the source of the strange things that have reawakened to plague my dreams when I do sleep—haunting flights of illicit fancy that are so indecent I dare not record them here or anywhere else.

At times like this, I feel as though I am trapped between Scylla and Charybdis—as if no matter what choices I make, I will lose what matters most to me.  If we keep going down the path we’ve chosen, I fear what lies ahead. In trying to fulfil Father’s dreams of a reclaimed London, are we dooming ourselves to succumb to our greatest fear?  

If the cost of Father’s legacy is the loss of my brother, I don’t know what I’ll do. Just the thought stirs the panic within me again, tightening the crippling pain inside my chest, even as it feeds the seeds of discontent that grow within me—a restless vexation towards the blasted awful train we live on.

I never thought I would long for the quiet life of Crawley, but I do—and lately, when our eyes meet in passing, I could almost swear that Jacob shares that feeling.

As it is, that is simply another thing I long for that can never be. Therefore, as the hour grows even later, I must set my pen down and close your cover, hiding you away—the need to check on Jacob is riding me, so strongly that I can no longer ignore it. Only when that has completed and I have fought and won my battle will I be able to close my eyes and relinquish myself to a few hours’ sleep. Sadly, I know that even then, it will not be the peaceful rest I long for—that was left behind in our bedroom in Crawley, with so many other things that are dear to me.

Though I will never mention it to Jacob, in these wee hours of the night... I care nothing about our great mission and all the good that has been done here in London; at times like this, I wish we’d listened to George and followed his orders, returning to Crawley on the day of our blooding. 

If we had, there would be no restless nights spent staring into the darkness for hours, wondering if he still loved me enough to check on me in the night—the tightness of his strong arms surrounding me would be all the answer I’d need.

I would be able to sleep soundly, for I would not be alone.


	4. ENIGMA

It was hard for her to find the proper words to describe him—there were simply far too many to choose from; the characteristics her brother possessed were broad and diverse, constantly changing depending on whichever mercurial mood gripped him at any given moment. It was difficult to sum up the whole of what he was, for Jacob was multifaceted—as multifarious as London itself, manifold and complex.

He was impatient and reckless, his attention span almost nonexistent—he never took a moment to think things through; he was brash and bawdy—over exuberant and loud, far too often letting his excitement and enthusiasm spur him into action when wariness and caution were a far wiser choice. He was oft disheveled and somewhat coarse in his manners, forgetting the most basic acts of propriety—with his shirt half untucked and his hair uncombed, the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ or even ‘excuse me’ seemed foreign to his lips. As prone to childish petulance and pouting as he was to shouting and posturing when it came to a debate, Jacob was violent and wild and untamable, bristling with a raw, masculine energy that seemed to ooze from his very pores like sweat, dancing along her skin whenever he was near.

To give even the slightest hint to whom Jacob was, countless words would be required—but if pressed to aggregate the entirety into just one, she would have to settle on the word contradiction.  
For there was no sign of his ever present impatience or inattention when he carefully uncoiled the plaits of hair from her head at the end of the day—in those quiet, calm moments, he was meticulous, fully focused on the task at hand. And while the bruises and callouses on his knuckles betrayed the violence he was so capable of, his hands were gentle as he combed his fingers through the strands, painstakingly unfurling the tangles and snarls from the waves. 

Alone together in their carriage, there was no harsh loudness in his voice—it was soft and husky, a teasing murmur of a purr that compelled her to close the distance betwixt then so she could better hear. The haughty arrogance he oft displayed to the world was absent, replaced by the hesitant unsureness she adored—his cheeks flushing in a boyish manner that warmed her heart, drawing her in. When it was just the two of them, he somehow found the polite pleasantries that escaped him in public, always thanking her for the meals she prepared, and the little things she did to make the train seem more like a home—the word ‘please’ was used in copious amounts as her lips and hands skirted along his body, teasing and tormenting him for hours on end.  
Indeed, in those moments, it seemed that she had tamed the untamable and reined in his wildness, however, she wasn’t fooled for an instant—she knew him far too well. In the blink of an eye, he was just as liable to grab her unexpectedly, pinning her to the wall, his lips hungry and demanding as they claimed and clung to hers—stirring her own wildness from the cage where she kept it trapped deep within, reminding her that in her own way, she was just as much a paradox as he was.

Above all else, Jacob was an enigma—a riddle that was more intriguing and irresistible than any logogriph or conundrum or mystery that might be found in any ancient tome, for it was one that could never be fully solved. And for a woman as cerebral and syllogistic as Evie Frye, that meant that her twin’s very nature in and of itself was the most entrancing, arousing thing imaginable, stimulating her mind in a way that nothing else could. The path to winning her heart began with her brain, and there was no man on earth who could ever hope to ensnare it as fully as Jacob did just by being himself—that was the plain and simple truth.


End file.
